Friend’s Advice

The espresso machine hissed, a sharp, metallic sound that cut through the low hum of the Mission District cafe. I tapped my fingers against my paper cup. I shouldn't be here. I had a shift starting in an hour, and my brain was already looping through the patient charts I’d reviewed at dawn.

"Dr. Reyes?"

I looked up. The woman standing there didn't look like a messenger of doom. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a wellness magazine. Lila Patel was polished, wearing a silk blouse the color of sand and a calm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Lila. Thanks for meeting me," I said, gesturing to the wooden stool across from me.

We’d met briefly through the community health project’s PR firm, but this morning, she had texted me with a strange urgency. *We need to talk about the campaign. And about Jasper.*

Lila sat down, but she didn’t order a drink. She set her phone face down on the table. "I’ll be quick. I know you’re busy, and I know how Jasper operates. He makes you feel like you’re the only person in a room of a thousand people."

I felt a small, uncomfortable prickle at the back of my neck. "He’s a consultant on the project, Lila. We work together. That’s all."

Lila tilted her head. Her gold earrings caught the morning light. "Is it? Because I’ve seen that look before. That look where you’re trying to figure out if the charm is a mask or the man."

"I'm a surgeon," I said, my voice tightening. "I deal in facts, not charms."

"Then here is a fact," Lila said. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a level that made the surrounding chatter disappear. "Jasper Cole doesn’t see people. He sees scores. He sees data points."

I frowned. "Data points? He’s an influencer. His whole life is based on engagement. That’s not a secret."

"No, Elena. It’s deeper than that." Lila’s hands were steady as she spoke. "A few years ago, I was where you are. I thought I was the exception. We went on three dates. They were perfect. He knew my favorite obscure poet. He knew exactly which wine I liked before I ordered it. It felt... curated."

"Maybe he’s just observant," I countered, though my mind flashed back to the power outage at the community center. The way he had talked about his childhood. The way he’d looked at me by candlelight.

"He has a list," Lila whispered.

The word hung between us, heavy and cold.

"A list?" I asked.

"An app. A journal. I don’t know exactly what form it takes now, but he logs every date. Every interaction. He rates them. He once told a mutual friend that he was looking for a 'perfect ten' just to see if he could break the scale. To him, you aren't a partner. You're a 'Project.' You’re the 'Unreachable Woman' he wants to add to his collection."

I felt a sudden chill, despite the heat of my coffee. I thought about the way Jasper had been pushing me lately—pushing me to be vulnerable, pushing me to drop my guard. Was it all just a tactic to get a better rating?

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "Is this a 'scorned ex' thing?"

Lila didn’t flinch. "I’m not scorned. I’m fine. I just hate seeing someone like you—someone real—get turned into a footnote in a narcissist’s diary. He’s very good at finding the crack in your armor and filling it with exactly what you want to hear."

She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Just be careful, Elena. When the project is over, or when he gets bored of the chase, he’ll move on to the next entry. Don't let yourself be a number in his phone."

She walked away before I could respond. I watched her go, my heart thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs.

I looked down at my coffee. A 'Project.' The 'Unreachable Woman.' It sounded exactly like the kind of cynical game the men in this city played. It aligned perfectly with the Jasper I had met at the gala—the arrogant, silver-tongued man I had dismissed instantly.

But then, I thought of the Jasper from two nights ago. The man who had stayed late to help me move heavy crates of medical supplies. The man who had listened, truly listened, when I talked about the pressure of my residency. There had been no cameras then. No audience.

I grabbed my bag and stood up, my jaw set. People like Lila meant well, or maybe they didn't. Maybe she was right. But I had spent my entire life trusting my own observations, my own hands, and my own instincts. I didn't make diagnoses based on hearsay.

I walked out of the shop and into the bright, foggy San Francisco morning. I would keep my eyes open, and I would keep my guard up. But I wouldn't let a stranger’s ghost stories dictate how I saw the man standing right in front of me.

Not yet.

The golden light of *L'Avenue* was designed to make everyone look like a movie star. It was the kind of place where the butter was shaped like seashells and the hostesses possessed the cooling grace of runway models. I checked my reflection in the polished brass of the entryway. My hair was perfect. My suit cost more than a used sedan. I looked exactly like the man people expected me to be.

Beside me, Chloe—or was it Cloe?—was laughing at something I’d said five minutes ago. She was a "7—High Engagement" on paper. She had thirty thousand followers, a penchant for organic mezcal, and eyes that wandered toward the mirrors as often as mine did.

"And then he actually asked for my zodiac sign," she said, tossing her blonde waves. "Can you believe the audacity? In 2025?"

"The horror," I murmured, my smile hitting the precise degree of charmingly lopsided.

Usually, this was the part where I’d lean in. I’d offer a witty observation about the cosmic irony of dating in San Francisco, and by the time the appetizers arrived, I’d have her phone password and a mental draft of her entry in my app.

But my pocket buzzed.

I knew the vibration pattern. It wasn't a social media notification. it was the specific alert I’d set for the Community Health Project’s shared drive.

*New Comment: Elena Reyes.*

I felt a strange, sharp tug in my chest—a sudden restlessness that had nothing to do with the woman standing next to me.

"Is everything okay, Jasper?" Chloe asked, pouting just enough to be cute. "You look like you’re calculating a tip already."

"Just a work thing," I said, sliding my phone out.

I shouldn't have looked. I was on a date. Rule number one of the "Jasper Cole Experience" was total presence. But I swiped the screen anyway.

*Elena: Jasper, the demographic breakdown for the Mission District clinic is inconsistent. We need to cross-reference the 2024 census data before the presentation tomorrow. Are you available to review?*

It was cold. Professional. Typical Elena. But I could almost hear her voice saying it—that clipped, no-nonsense tone she used when she was stressed, the way she tucked a stray dark hair behind her ear when she was staring at a spreadsheet.

"Everything okay?" Chloe repeated, leaning closer so the scent of her expensive perfume clouded my senses.

I looked at Chloe. She was beautiful, easy, and entirely predictable. I knew how this night ended. I knew the rhythm of the conversation, the practiced chemistry, and the hollow feeling in my gut when I’d drive home later, checking boxes in my mind.

Then I thought about Elena. I thought about the way she challenged every word that came out of my mouth. She wasn't an easy "7." She was a mountain I couldn't seem to climb, a puzzle that made my old tricks look like cheap parlor magic.

Working on the census data sounded boring. It sounded like actual effort.

It sounded like the only thing I wanted to do.

"Chloe," I said, my voice shifting. The performance dropped away, replaced by a bluntness that even surprised me. "I’m so sorry. I have to go."

She blinked, her mascara-thick lashes frozen. "Go? We haven't even been seated."

"I know. It’s... it’s an emergency."

"A lifestyle blogging emergency?" she asked, her voice sharpening with a hint of salt.

"A healthcare initiative emergency," I corrected. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, pressing it into her hand. "Take a car home. Order the lobster on me. I really am sorry."

I didn't wait for her to argue. I turned on my heel and walked out of the restaurant, the cool San Francisco air hitting my face like a splash of cold water.

I sat in my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel. My heart was racing. This was a mistake. I was breaking my own rules. I was prioritizing a woman who saw me as a nuisance over a woman who saw me as a prize.

I opened my app. I looked at the entry for Elena.

*Project Elena: Status - Unreachable.*

I began to type a reply, my thumbs hovering over the glass.

*Jasper: I’m on my way to the office now. Order pizza. I have the updated 2024 files on my laptop.*

I hit send. There was no rating for this. No score for how it felt to ditch a perfect date for a night of data entry.

I put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic, heading toward the UCSF district. I was walking straight into a trap of my own making, moving toward a woman who might never actually like me, and for the first time in ten years, I didn't care about the exit strategy. I just wanted to see her face when I walked through the door.